


Through My Soul Like A Hurricane Wind

by A_Kid_Named_Hiro



Series: MadaTobi Week [11]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-12
Updated: 2018-12-12
Packaged: 2019-09-17 01:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16964958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Kid_Named_Hiro/pseuds/A_Kid_Named_Hiro
Summary: Prompt:To the victor go the spoils(fromMadaTobi Week 2018).





	Through My Soul Like A Hurricane Wind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [raendown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/raendown/gifts).



> Prompt: _To the victor go the spoils_ (from **[MadaTobi Week 2018](https://madatobiweek.tumblr.com/post/174594542851/madatobi-week-2018-prompts)** ).

He stands amid the ruins of the decimated safehouse, beneath the broken roof and the rain that forms puddles at his feet, night-dark and blood-red.

There is blood upon the air. Madara inhales it. Inhales steel and gun smoke and fear that lingers. Inhales the thunderstorm.

He tilts his face skyward. He can see the rain, the brief flashes of lightning through the hole in the roof. Feels _cold_ and _damp_ that tug his hair downward. Against his skin, his shoulders, his spine, heavy like a theater curtain, like the scent of death.

Madara exhales and wonders if this is what the afterlife would look like.

He thinks of the storm and thinks of Tobirama.

Tobirama, carnage and destruction that follow him like a shadow.

Tobirama, the storm-caller.

Tobirama, whose gaze lies heavy and intent upon him.

Madara can feel it, is ever aware of it. The weight of Tobirama's dark gaze, eyeing him like a ravenous predator. It makes Madara shiver in ways that have nothing to do with the cold.

He forces his gaze to meet Tobirama's own.

Tobirama stands against the wall, by a shattered window. Glass shards and cigarette ash and a corpse by his feet. Blood. In his hair. Upon his face, his suit, his shoes. His katana rests as he does, against the cracked wall. A lit cigarette dangles between his fingers.

Madara swallows. Tobirama has always looked good, in the dark of his suit, in the blood of his enemies. Always looks at home amid chaos of his making.

Time stills between them. They stare at each other, tension and silence in the air like bated breath. Like _I dare you to blink first._

It is Madara who does. It is Tobirama who moves.

He is there, beneath the rain, before Madara, eyes tiger-bright and storm-dark. His cigarette lies discarded in a puddle of blood. His hand is a firm grip in Madara's hair. Madara winces at the fierce tug, the way his head is forcefully tilted backward. The vulnerability of his exposed throat.

Then it's Tobirama's teeth, closing upon him. Tobirama's lips, warm like the blood Madara can feel trickling from his skin.

He feels himself stumbling. Over rubble, over slippery tile, over someone's leg. Madara stumbles backward but does not fall for Tobirama is there, guiding, shoving till Madara's back is pressed to the rough brick of a ruined wall.

Through it all, Tobirama's lips upon him. He kisses a trail from Madara's neck to his jaw. To his cheek and his mouth that willingly parts beneath Tobirama's own.

Tobirama's hands. They are greedy, wandering things. In his hair, over his spine, his hip, his ass. Fingers upon the button, the zip of his pants. Fingers that shove their way into his boxers, that close around his cock, impatient, rapacious.

Madara's moan is a too-loud thing against Tobirama's mouth. He fumbles with Tobirama's pants. Wants to feel him too.

Around them, the scent of decay. Sweat and cigarette smoke. Bodies, empty like the bullet shells from Madara's gun. Tobirama kisses him and Madara tastes triumph upon his tongue. He wonders what he tastes like to Tobirama. Wonders if he tastes like desperation. Wonders if he tastes like lashed, tattered pride.

Tobirama's cock, against his. His large hand, sword-callused, around them. Madara's moans sound so much like need. His hips are this wildly bucking, straining thing. His fingers are white-knuckled grips in the lapels of Tobirama's jacket. He can feel the blood crusting upon the heels of his palms, beneath his fingernails.

Rain against the ground. Against what little remains of this building. Tobirama's breaths that mingle with his in this heated cold. His cock that's pressed against Madara's. His hand that slides along them. His thumb that dances first over the head of his own cock, then Madara's, mingling precum.

Madara's eyes are squeezed shut. Teeth gritting against the intensity of it all. His knees are weak. He wants to fall. Knows that he _would,_ if Tobirama weren't here, pinning him in place.

They are so close. Jacking off in enemy territory, in the dead of night, somewhere in Buttfuck, Thesprotia. Their witnesses, the dead eyes and lingering ghosts of the men who took too much. Men who killed their Boss.

Madara wonders if this would count as necrophilia. He wonders what their Famiglia would say if they saw them now, decadent things amid death and destruction Tobirama would call _art._

He looks at Tobirama. The sharp lines of his face, briefly illuminated by the forked flash of lightning, then obscured by shadow. It always rains when Tobirama's around. Always rains when he bathes the earth in the blood of their enemies.

Tobirama's grip tightens around them. His thumb presses hard upon Madara's slit.

Madara cries out, yanking Tobirama forward, pressing his mouth to his, urgent and wanting.

Orgasm is wrenched from him, like a skeleton from flesh. Madara feels himself shatter. Feels the pulse of Tobirama's cock against his. He reaches downward, grips Tobirama's fist in his own. Feels the sticky warmth of Tobirama's cum slicking their fingers.

Tobirama kisses him still. It is a bruising thing, laced with darkness and dominance.

Madara kisses his cry against Tobirama. The taste of revenge is a bittersweet thing upon Tobirama's tongue.


End file.
